


Of the Pickle Persuasion

by Byacolate, mywordsflyup



Series: Sugar Dough & Sushi Roll [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Food Service, Food Trucks, M/M, Pining and Mad About It, Rivalry, Shimada Genji/Tekhartha Zenyatta, Unresolved Sexual Tension, West Side Story for Food Trucks Sans Gunfire and Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-09-23 23:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9686636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/pseuds/mywordsflyup
Summary: Hanzo is convinced that his bento wagon is locked in a corporate deathmatch with the taco truck down the street. Genji just wants to flirt with the produce vendor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to do a food truck au for approximately an eternity, and mywordsflyup was finally able to turn that dream into a reality. -B
> 
> Now with an unbelievably cute [comic](http://thedoormann.tumblr.com/post/162802196228/so-the-food-truck-au-fic-by-wardencommando-and) by [thedoorman](http://thedoormann.tumblr.com/), and [a sweet pic of Genji](http://blacksmiley-c.tumblr.com/post/158674368423/i-read-this-fanfic-by-wardencommando-and) by [blacksmiley-c](http://blacksmiley-c.tumblr.com/).

Against all odds, the new truck is back for a third week. And what’s worse: They were set up before Hanzo. 

 

It’s not that he’s worried about them taking the Shimadas’ usual spot. There’s etiquette, after all. A code. And if that fails, there are permits. But still, it’s the optics of the thing. And also the feeling of prickling irritation Hanzo feels in his gut as he pulls into his spot, only to find the new people already busy setting up shop. 

 

Half an hour later, Hanzo has followed suit, perhaps a little bit hastier than he normally would. The niggle of irritation lingers. 

 

“Scowling at them won’t make them go away.” Genji hefts the heavy handwritten sign over the counter and gets out of the truck to set it up.

 

“I am not scowling,” Hanzo says. 

 

Genji rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry. Looking at them with a perfectly neutral expression that definitely doesn’t convey your disgust for the whole situation won’t make them go away.” 

 

Hanzo clicks his tongue. There’s no point in taking Genji’s bait; he’s only waiting for Hanzo to make a move. Instead he pulls out the containers with already prepared ingredients and sets them up on the back counter. 

 

“You didn’t make this much of a fuss when Ziegler set up her truck on the corner.” 

 

“That was different.” Hanzo carefully places the little containers just the way he likes them during cooking. “She has her own niche.  _ They _ are stealing customers.”

 

Genji shrugs and adjust the sign one last time before getting back into the truck. “Who knows? Maybe they're serving kosher food as well? Maybe they're  _ her  _ competition.” 

 

Hanzo gives him a sideways glance. Genji’s face is perfect innocence but Hanzo knows better. 

 

“You're not going over there to try the food.” 

 

Genji lets out a theatrical sigh but accepts the knife and board for cutting duty when Hanzo hands them over. “This is very irresponsible, you know. Not scoping out the competition.” 

 

“I thought they were Angela Ziegler’s competition.” 

 

“Don’t use my own words against me.” 

 

“Don't wave that knife around and get to work.” 

 

It isn’t that Hanzo doesn’t appreciate a bit of healthy competition. In fact, he prefers it; the sense of accomplishment he feels when their customers sate their curiosity over newcomers and return to them is unparalleled. The unmatched length of their queue compared to all others down the corporate block smacks of victory, and Hanzo likes victory.

 

These fleeting instances of betrayal never last long - the brief, bright burst of a cherry tomato upon one’s tongue before it disappears down the gullet, ultimately unsatisfying.  _ Bento Brothers _ is satisfying. Bento Brothers is ultimately unmatched.

 

Bento Brothers has never been toe to toe with a newcomer for three whole weeks.

 

“What could possibly inspire such disloyalty,” he mutters to his mise en place, forcefully slicing a pickled radish. Genji snorts beside him, dicing up the crab. 

 

“Haven’t you smelled it, brother?”

 

“Unfortunately.”

 

“It’s amazing, right?” Genji sighs a little too dreamily for Hanzo’s comfort. “The corporate drones can probably smell it all through the complex. It’s no wonder they always have an appetite for it.”

 

“The  _ corporate drones _ are our customers,” Hanzo reminds him with a pointed _ thack thack _ of his knife through another radish. 

 

“Well,” Genji says and dumps a handful of crab into the designated container, “right now they’re still sitting in their conference rooms, typing away on their little computers. Too far away to hear my slander.” 

 

Hanzo huffs. “You watch far too many movies.” 

 

“How else am I supposed to know how the other half lives?” Genji sighs, prep momentarily forgotten as he gazes out of the truck and across the street. “I’d watch a movie about those three. They look like fun.” 

 

“Let us see if they are still laughing once they are out of business.”

 

Genji leans back against the counter and shakes his head. “No need to go full Disney villain on me.” 

 

Hanzo takes a deep breath before moving on to the spring onions. “This whole conversation is redundant. They will be gone before the month is through.” 

 

Genji makes a noise but doesn’t say anything until Hanzo is halfway through the onions. “They’re getting great reviews, though.” 

 

Hanzo whips around, knife still in hand. “What?” 

 

Genji looks up from his phone like a startled rabbit, “Huh?” 

 

“They have _reviews?_ They've been here for less than three weeks!” 

 

With a little shrug, Genji turns his phone so Hanzo can see, scrolling down the site with one finger. Row after row of little boxes with five-star reviews. 

 

“That is impossible.” 

 

“Maybe they’re just that good?” 

 

Hanzo doesn’t even deign to respond to that. 

 

He finishes his mise en place with the exact right amount of passive aggressive volume before he starts to pack the bento boxes. They have a few dozen regulars who always order the same arrangement, so it’s worth the time to take them into account during preparation. The rest of the ingredients they set aside to be prepared upon request from a short selection posted on the board outside.

 

He thwacks Genji’s hand with a pair of chopsticks when he catches him reaching into the produce shelf. 

 

“Hey!” Genji yelps, rubbing the back of his hand. He glares balefully at Hanzo, pushing put his bottom lip in a pout. 

 

“Stay out of the produce.”

 

“C’mon, Brother, I was getting a peach!”

 

“Stay out of the peaches.”

 

“Those are mine! I bought them out of pocket!”

 

Hanzo rolls his eyes, and barely resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose - thinks better of it, remembering the garlic on his gloved hands. “Stop wasting your money flirting with the Nepali vendors. We already pay them enough for business purposes.”

 

”You can’t tell me how to flirt with an angel,” Genji grumbles, snatching up a peach before Hanzo can whack him again.

 

“I never knew you needed to pay your way through a flirt,” Hanzo says dryly, peeling off his gloves.

 

Genji sulks but maintains a safe distance between them, keeping the peach out of reach. “Who says I have to? They’re just very good peaches.”

 

“I would not know.” Hanzo crosses his arms and looks over to the food truck across the street. They also seem to have finished prep for what they call food. The young woman in violet climbs out of the truck and says something to the man inside that makes him lean out of the window as if to grab her. She ducks and her laughter carries down the street. 

 

Hanzo squints. They’re too far away for him to make out their menu on the black slate board on the side of the truck. 

 

“You’re scowling again,” Genji says, licking his sticky fingers clean. “You could always just go over there.” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Sooner or later they’re going to… Oh, look! He’s waving at you!” 

 

Hanzo whips around like a child caught red-handed, which, in hindsight, probably only made it that much more obvious that he’d been staring. Because just as he was fairly certain he could make out the first item on their menu, the man in the truck spotted him. 

 

Shimada Hanzo doesn’t get flustered. 

 

Usually. 

 

He picks up his knife as if there was any more prep to do and puts it back down not a second later. At some point he’ll have to turn back around. 

 

“Well, that was rude,” Genji says, and Hanzo doesn’t have to look at him to know that there’s that smug little grin on his face. 

 

“Pleasantries have no place in the kitchen. Have you finished your prep?”

 

“Yes,  _ Mother.” _ Genji washes his hands after he finishes his peach and snaps on another pair of gloves. “Are we ready to open?”

 

“Of course we are,” Hanzo says, dropping the OPEN sign outside. “Promptly, as usual.”

 

“You’re such an asshole,” Genji cheerfully tells him as the first wave of customers comes trickling out of the complex.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

“What,” Hanzo starts, slowly, as if he’s received a mild concussion, “is that.”

 

Genji stares unapologetically from the open door of the truck with his hands full. “Horchata,” he says, taking a sip from a paper cup. With his other hand, he gestures with five fingers locked tight around a paper bag reeking of spiced meat. Hanzo’s eyes narrow.

 

“And  _ that?” _

 

“Uhhh.” Genji lifts the bag and squints. “ _ Pollo asado. _ I think that’s just grilled chicken, but the guy insisted -”

 

“Genji.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I am  _ very _ disappointed in you.”

 

Genji takes another sip of his horchata, apparently contemplating this. “I can handle that,” he says, and hops up into the truck, setting the bag down on the pristine counter top. Hanzo shifts his glare from his brother to the nondescript brown bag and the words scrawled across the paper in black marker. Genji opens it up and pulls out a small bundle wrapped in thin white paper; he peels it back, and a waft of grilled vegetables and spices fills the truck. Genji moans, pulling the taco up to his face. 

 

Hanzo can spot portabello mushrooms, peppers, and onions from where he’s standing, along with finely diced tomatoes in some sort of sauce on top. Grilled chicken is bursting from the sides. 

 

Slyly, Genji meets Hanzo’s gaze as he takes a slow bite.

 

“Hey,” he says, mouth half full, and slides the bag over toward Hanzo. “I got you one too.”

 

“You have no shame,” Hanzo says, pushing the bag back towards Genji. “No loyalty. And you have lost your mind if you think I am going to take a single bite of this.” 

 

“You’re overreacting.” Genji wipes his mouth with a paper napkin only to take another huge bite of his taco not two seconds later. 

 

“I am reacting the perfect amount.” Hanzo accentuates his words with a final shove against the paper bag, sliding it dangerously close to the edge. 

 

“Now I’ll try not to be offended by that.” 

 

Genji almost drops his taco and there’s a small relief in the fact that Hanzo wasn’t the only one who didn’t see or hear the stranger appear right in front of their truck. Small victories. 

 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who he is. Hanzo may have only seen him from afar but that flannel shirt and that ridiculous hat are unmistakable. Up close, his smile is far more remarkable, however - even though Hanzo doesn’t miss the way his eyes narrow just slightly at the sight of the rejected paper bag. 

 

Smoothly, Hanzo transitions from Japanese to English and straightens his posture. 

 

“Hello,” he says, side-eying Genji, who normally mans the human interaction portion of their job. Unfortunately for him, his brother’s mouth and hands are both full. “How can I help you?”

 

If Hanzo had to judge, he’d say the man looks around his age. The hair on his face and forearms and the shaggy mop under his hat could aptly settle him in the category of “scruffy” or “wild”. Despite it, entirely begrudgingly, a little part of Hanzo has to admit he might be somewhat handsome as well. Maybe even _because_ of it.

 

Hanzo bats Genji’s voice out from the cobweb-coated corners of his brain before it can drag him further along.

 

“Hey there,” the man grins. “Just wanted to come over and check y’all out. Been wanting to scope out our biggest competition, but...” He winks.  _ Winks. _ Like Hanzo is in on some sort of secret. “We’ve been real busy. You know how it is.”

 

Hanzo hates him. 

 

Hanzo kind of wants to melt in his voice, with a little cream and white wine. 

 

“But your business partner here extended a hand before I got the chance!” He gestures toward Genji, who waves a little, taco half crammed down his mouth, the traitor. “So I thought I’d make time. Name’s Jesse, Jesse McCree, and I do believe I’m your competition.” 

 

He peruses menu and Hanzo valiantly doesn’t stuff his brother in the vegetable crisper.

 

“Tiny menu, huh?”

 

“Concise,” Hanzo corrects, forcibly unclenching his teeth. 

 

“We are very good at what we do,” Genji pipes up. It would be a heartening effort on his part if he weren’t licking pico de gallo from his fingertips. Jesse McCree’s laughter sounds the way dark chocolate tastes. Hanzo loves dark chocolate. He definitely doesn’t love Jesse McCree.

 

“I don’t doubt it.” He taps his finger against his chin. “We try to go for a little more variety. People seem to like that.” 

 

Hanzo is clutching the edge of the counter so tightly, his knuckles stand out white. “Consistency and  _ quality  _ are our goals .” 

 

It gets him another wink and that alone is enough sparks in him a catlike desire to sweep the remaining taco off the counter. 

 

“Oh, we figure quality should be a given.” 

 

Genji watches them like they’re playing the most exciting tennis match of all time, carefully picking the last bits and pieces out of his taco bag. 

 

“So,” Hanzo says and forces himself to let go of the edge of the counter. “What will you order?”  It’s incredibly rude and goes against every principle within him about how to treat his customers but Hanzo can’t bring himself to care. He’s not allowed to hiss and this is the closest thing to it. 

 

Not that Jesse McCree seems to care. He looks over the menu again as if more options might have appeared on it since the last time he checked. “Why don’t you make me your special. Whatever’s best.” 

 

“It is all excellent.” 

 

“Well, then whatever you’d choose. You look like a man of taste.” 

 

Something ignites within Hanzo at that. Everything falls back into place - his confidence, his pose, his sense of self, because in this at least, Jesse McCree is correct. He is a man of taste. Hanzo turns up his nose with a short, amused exhale. “I doubt I could say the same. But I suppose we shall see.”

 

He turns away, avoiding further commentary, to begin preparation for one of his own personal favorite combinations. Hanzo pulls out a sleek black matte bento box, lifts the lid monogrammed with blue and green dragons intertwined, and delicately places the pre-prepared selections within before moving to the grill. 

 

Not seven minutes later, the box is full - ginger pork meatballs nestled within a nest of soba, prawn nigiri sushi, a traditional sweet omelette, and his favorite pickled radishes. He presses the lid back on top and returns to the window where the conversation between Genji and Jesse McCree he’d been ignoring comes to a halt.

 

“Your order,” Hanzo says, setting the box before him. “Enjoy.”

 

“Don’t mind if I do,” he says, with another damnable _ wink. _

 

Some part of Hanzo hopes he’ll go somewhere else to eat his food - preferably somewhere far, far away where Hanzo won’t have to look at him or his smile or his broad shoulders or his stupid wink. 

 

But of course he digs in right there and then, right in front of his truck, like a barbarian. At least he gets to watch his reaction like this. 

 

Which is… restrained. Hanzo watches him eat from the corner of his eye while pretending to be fully engrossed in cleaning his work station. Jesse McCree doesn’t look like the kind of man who’d hold back on his emotions and reactions. And Hanzo knows for a fact that his food is excellent. 

 

Yet still, there isn’t much of a reaction at all. When he catches Hanzo looking at him, he gives him a small nod of acknowledgment which might just be the most infuriating part of the whole thing. 

 

So Hanzo looks at Genji instead, who knows exactly what it looks like when Hanzo’s trying to “fry him with his lazer beam eyes” - not his favorite metaphor, but at the moment, apt.

 

“Text your produce vendor that today will be your last on this earth,” he says calmly, wiping down the counter for the third time and pointedly ignoring the cold taco bag.

 

“Yes, honorable older brother, of course,” Genji says, and takes it as an excuse to pull out his phone. Hanzo takes stock of their remaining sesame oil, and makes a note to order a new batch in bulk when Genji makes a terrible noise beside him, like lovebird’s death rattle. 

 

“He says it would be _a regrettable loss,”_ Genji sighs, pressing the phone to his chest, “and he would mourn me.”

 

“Genji,” Hanzo starts, his tone remarkably even. He looks up toward the ceiling in deep thought. “Do you remember when we were boys, and our parents took us to that restaurant in the old district for the children’s festival?”

 

Genji scrunches up his nose at the change in subject. “The… one by the sea?”

 

“The very same.” Hanzo nods. “Do you remember what he ordered for us on that special day?”

 

“The pufferfish!” Genji says, snapping his fingers. “That was the single coolest thing they ever did for us! Ah..” He frowns. “But Mother wouldn’t let me have any. She said I was too young. But you got to have some.”

 

“I did,” Hanzo agrees, “The very first bite. Because it was Children’s Day, and I was the eldest son. I think about that meal often, in moments like these, while I'm suffering. I can’t help but wonder, Genji… perhaps if the chef hadn’t been  _ quite _ so meticulous in removing the deadly poison glands...”

 

Genji shoves him hard in the shoulder, cackling himself silly, and drawing attention from everyone in the vicinity… including Jesse McCree.

 

He watches them as he finishes up his food and the look on his face… Hanzo doesn’t quite know what to make of it. He’s fairly certain that McCree doesn’t speak Japanese but he still seems strangely intrigued.

 

Hanzo doesn’t care for it.

 

He clears his throat and goes back to cleaning his station.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“This was pretty good.” 

 

Hanzo doesn’t quite jump and thanks the heavens for it not a second later. How a man as big and loudly dressed as McCree can manage to sneak up on him twice in one day is beyond him. 

 

He sniffs, mostly out of annoyance with himself. McCree places the empty box back on the counter and smiles.  


 

“The produce you use is high quality stuff.”

 

“I am surprised you were able to tell, the way you wolfed it down.” 

 

“What can I say?” McCree grins. “I’m a big guy. Got an almighty appetite.”

 

If he says  _ appetite _ in that timbre again, Hanzo’s going to move to the farthest corner of Antarctica to bathe with the seals.

 

“Please dispose of your waste in the recycling bin,” he says instead of that, and finds comfort looking down his nose at McCree. “Have a nice day.”

 

“Sure thing, bento brother,” he says with a little smirk. “Oh and, uh… feel free to come by for a fresh taco any ol’ time. They’re better hot.”

  
McCree tips his hat and grins as he saunters his way back to the Mexican food truck while Hanzo stands in his cabin with an unrepentant brother, suffering from a minor heart attack.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been a month and for some inexplicable reason people are still not sick of tacos.

 

It’s a mystery - as vexing as it is frustrating. Genji still insists that the food is just that good but Hanzo has his doubts. Not that he’s tasted it. He hasn’t stooped that low. 

 

He keeps stealing glances over to the other truck as he’s preparing a box for a regular. Today, the taco truck line once again matched their own. Only now at the end of lunch, the rush finally slows. 

 

His customer, an impossibly tall German who’s introduced himself with his first name the very first day they met, turns around to follow Hanzo’s gaze - his suit straining to keep up with the bulk of him. 

 

“Mh,” he says, voice not unlike the grunt of a bear, “they are very popular with people at the office.” 

 

“Are they?” Hanzo fans out some sliced beef on top of a small mountain of rice. “I had hardly noticed.”

 

Reinhardt laughs that full belly laugh that Hanzo’s come to associate with him. “I have heard they are very good, but I am an old man now. I like to stick with what I know. I am a creature of habit.” He grunts. “Was der Bauer nicht kennt, frisst er nicht.” Another laugh, even louder than the last. 

 

“I appreciate that.” Hanzo closes the box and slides it over the counter. In truth, he isn’t sure if he likes the idea that his customers might only stay because they are too comfortable to try something different. Still, loyalty is loyalty, and Hanzo tosses in a few extra slices of beef and a little ginger rose for one of his most steadfast regulars.

 

Genji returns from his emergency cucumber run not long after Reinhardt departs with little to no haste in his step, and on top of the wooden Shambali produce crate piled high with fresh cucumbers is a familiar brown paper bag.

 

Hanzo frowns.

 

“Get that out of my truck.”

 

Genji pays him no mind at all and hops inside, setting the crate on the floor and lifting the bag. “Hello, Hanzo, my dearest older brother! You’ll be happy to know that I, Genji, the brightest star in your sky -” he tosses the bag, and Hanzo only catches it out of pure, catlike reflex, “ - have brought you lunch.”

 

“My brother, the salt in my wound, has come baring spicy betrayal, and tells me to eat,” he growls, setting the bag firmly aside. Genji turns his face to the ceiling and heaves a dramatic sigh. 

 

“If you won’t have the tacos, at least try a churro. I thought I’d cry when I ate one. I’m going to run back and get some for Zenyatta. Can I trust you not to burn down the truck with the tacos inside?”

 

“You cannot.”

 

“Good! I’ll be back soon!” Genji salutes, and hops back out of the back, cheerfully slamming the door behind him.

 

The bag sits on the counter like a loaded gun, only arguably more ominous. 

 

Hanzo clicks his tongue as if the bag could understand his consternation and starts cleaning up. He’ll throw it out once he’s done. So it can rot at the bottom of the trash bin like it deserves. 

 

Every time he turns around, he's assaulted by a new wave of spices. Most of them he can make out, but there’s a certain blend in there… He snaps out of it when he realizes he’s been standing in the middle of his truck, sniffing the air, trying to figure out what spices were used in that damned taco he’s never going to eat. 

 

He huffs, pushing the bag further away from him when he goes to pack up the napkins on the counter. The movement opens it, just a little bit, cursed thing that it is. 

 

Who could blame him for risking a quick peek? 

 

The churros are on top, packed tightly in a separate white paper bag. And now that the bag is open, he can smell them as well. 

 

Hanzo looks around to check if anyone is watching him. He knows what this looks like. Like he’s about to reach into the bag and snatch one of those churros. 

 

Which he isn’t.

 

Definitely not. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s like biting into a tiny piece of heaven and Hanzo hates every second of it. 

 

There’s a tiny plastic container with chocolate sauce to go with the churros but he hasn’t  lost his way completely. And it’s not like they really need it, anyway. 

 

This is the lesser of the two evils. Genji has taken advantage of his sweet tooth. If Hanzo would not fall victim to a hot meal of spiced meats and vegetables, surely sugar would sway him. And damn him, he was right.

 

Hanzo finishes the churros before he even knows what’s happened, and all that’s left is the taco, staring him dead in the eye. 

 

“My will is strong,” he chants under his breath, dutifully unloading the cucumbers into the crisper. 

 

His stomach growls. 

 

“My will,” he reminds himself, “is  _ strong." _

 

There are only so many cucumbers before he’s left to face an empty crate and a full bag of taco.

 

“My will…”

 

His hand is in the bag. 

 

Hanzo has become that which he most fears. The taco is… well, mostly cold. He can only imagine what it must taste like hot.

 

There’s a proper spiciness to it, probably specifically for Genji. He still can’t make out the exact blend of spices, even after finishing the last bite. That’s almost more irritating than the fact that he caved in at all. 

 

He stares at the bag in front of him, empty save for the rejected chocolate sauce. He doesn’t feel guilty exactly - he’s not some child contemplating the repercussions after emptying the cookie jar. He mostly feels foolish. 

 

His gaze is drawn to the truck on the other side of the road, almost automatically. The last of their customers are gone as well but McCree is still standing at the window. Looking over at him. 

 

Hanzo curses underneath his breath and shoves the empty bag out of sight. There’s no way McCree could have made out what exactly he was eating. Hanzo is sure of it. 

 

99% sure. 

 

Whatever McCree has seen, he’s not making a move to come over. Hanzo counts that as a blessing and vows to just ignore him.

 

In a moment of weakness, he peeks back outside. McCree waves at him from the window. The man next to him - tall, dark-skinned, wearing a beanie - follows his line of vision. Hanzo panics and in his panic curtly nods. They speak to each other - McCree more animated than his companion, and Hanzo snaps out of his panic (or delves deeper in) and ducks away from the window to the kitchen half of the cabin.

 

Genji returns in just under ten minutes after a pair of lost tourists disappear with identical sushi and omelette bento boxes, his hands full once again. Hanzo glares at the cups in his hands.

 

“Before you ask me what these are,” Genji pipes up, cutting that very question off before it slipped out of Hanzo’s mouth, “it’s horchata. This one is for me. And this one,” he says, all but shoving the cup into Hanzo’s hands, “is yours.”

 

In red marker on the side of his cup, in big broad letters is written one word. It takes a moment for Hanzo to make out the messy scrawl for what it is: “Enjoy!” with a poorly drawn smiley face wearing a couple of bananas. Or perhaps it’s supposed to be a cowboy hat.

 

“I am not drinking this,” Hanzo says but keeps the cup in his hand. 

 

Genji shrugs and takes a sip from his. “Why not? Seems like you abandoned your reservations about the taco.”  He nods towards the empty paper bag, the shameful evidence of his weakness. 

 

Hanzo snatches it away as if he could make it unseen. 

 

“That is not…” His mind goes blank as he looks for a proper excuse. “That was different.” 

 

He’s pretty sure Genji’s smug little grin is going to haunt him in his nightmares. 

 

“You might want to come up with a better response, brother. Because the cowboy is on his way over here.”

 

Hanzo feels dread like a cold damp hand on the nape of his neck but he manages to straighten up and adopt what he hopes is a calm and neutral expression before turning around. 

 

“Howdy!” McCree calls out, not even halfway across the street. 

 

“This is your doing,” Hanzo hisses to Genji, setting the cup aside and out of view. Genji has the audacity to grin at him.

  
“Yeah. I know. Hello, Jesse!” he switches abruptly to English, waving over Hanzo’s shoulder. Hanzo turns back to follow his gaze just in time to catch McCree tipping his hat as he meanders closer.

 

_ “Jesse,” _ Hanzo scoffs quietly, glaring at his brother. “Have you moved on from your fruit-seller already?”

 

“Not everyone is weird and formal like you, _ honorable older brother. _ Speak casually to people your age like a normal person.”

 

“Howdy, fellas. Nice day, ain’t it?” 

 

“It was,” Hanzo says and lets the paper bag in his hand fall to the floor, as subtly as possible. 

 

McCree just smiles and steps up right to the window of the truck. “Was it that bad?” 

 

“I do not know what you are talking about.” 

 

“Come on.” He nods towards the spot where the bag used to be just a few moments ago. “Saw you diggin’ in. Tell me honestly, how did you like it?” 

 

Hanzo wrinkles his nose. It seems there’s no more reason for pretending. “It was… fatty.” 

 

A blatant, clumsy lie and judging by the way McCree’s smile doesn’t falter even a little bit, he can tell. 

 

“What a shame,” he says. And there is that wink again. “You gotta come over sometime and I’ll make you something special. Something just for you.” 

 

“No, thank you.” 

 

McCree blinks. 

 

“Oh, uh… alright then.” 

 

He clears his throat and sidles up to the menu, and as soon as he’s occupied, Genji elbows Hanzo in the arm. He mutters, “Your technique is piss poor. He has no idea you’re flirting.”

 

“I am not  _ flirting _ ,” Hanzo whispers back, barely refraining from returning the elbow assault. 

 

“And that’s exactly the problem, you idiot -”

 

“Hey, uh.” McCree squints at the menu. “Think I know what I’ll try.”

 

Hanzo ignores the nudge Genji gives his shin with the toe of his shoe. “Of course. I live to serve.”

 

There’s that  _ laugh _ again - that beautiful, terrible laugh. “Is it the sarcasm that keeps bringin’ folk back to you? Guess I can’t judge; it’s been workin’ for me.”

 

Heat creeps up the back of Hanzo’s neck and he lowers his eyes. “Among other things. What will you have, McCree?”

 

“I think I’ll go with some more sushi. Some of what you gave me last time.” His smile widens. “You can leave out the pickled stuff this time.” 

 

Hanzo remembers to scoff just in time before moving to start his work. “Not a man of taste after all then?” 

 

“Mh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m back here again, aren’t I?” McCree’s voice is thick with amusement and… it doesn’t help with the heat that still seems determined to creep up all the way to his cheeks. 

 

He can feel two sets of eyes on him as he works. He’s a professional and not easily distracted but this feels different somehow. It doesn’t get easier when McCree strikes up a conversation with Genji, his voice an irritatingly pleasant background noise. 

 

From the corner of his eye, Hanzo can still see the cup of horchata sitting at the edge of his work station, just out of view from McCree. It’s turned just so that he can see the drawing, with its real-life counterpart just a few feet further to the left. 

 

He doesn’t feel guilty for not drinking it. 

 

He shouldn’t feel guilty. 

 

Hanzo closes the lid on the box and returns to the window, pushing it toward McCree. 

 

“Eat your vegetables,” he says, in lieu of something more socially appropriate. McCree blinks. 

 

“Did I… I don’t think I ordered any vegetables.”

 

“Even so.”

 

McCree blinks up at him before he nods, a funny look on his face. “Sure thing. Be seein’ you.”

 

When he walks away, box tucked under his prosthetic arm, Genji slaps Hanzo on the back. “Look at you, flirting with vegetables. And you didn’t even insult him to his face.”

 

“You are on pickling duty.”

 

“Demon brother!”

 

Genji squawks and bemoans his wasted afternoon as he sets about cleaning and peeling cucumbers as Hanzo retreats to the back of the cabin, horchata in hand. 


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn’t anticipate McCree’s return to be so soon. Not three hours later he returns, just as they’re in the middle of closing shop. McCree sidles up to the half-closed window, greeting Hanzo with a jaunty wave. Quickly, Hanzo locks the drawers up tight. 

 

“Hey there,” McCree says, resting his elbows on the window. 

 

“We are closed.”

 

“Oh sure, but I wasn’t gonna order anything. Just thought I might come over for a friendly chat.”

 

Hanzo doesn’t think he strikes anyone as a person open for _friendly chats._ He wonders if the look in his eye is enough to succinctly convey this to Jesse McCree. “I see.”

 

“Just had to come tell you… I’m still not sold on those pickled radishes.”

 

Hanzo peruses his condiment rack with a careful eye. “And yet, you ate them a second time.”

 

“Well, a real authoritative fella told me I ought to. I’ll try anything twice.” 

 

“Consider me impressed.” 

 

“You know, I live to serve.” 

 

The corner of Hanzo’s lips tick up before he can stop himself. He ducks his head to hide it but in the way McCree raises an eyebrow he can tell it’s too late. 

 

“Now there’s something I never thought I’d see.” He tips his hat as if they were in an actual cowboy movie. “That smile looks good on you.” 

 

“There is no need for dramatics.” Hanzo unties his apron and folds it neatly, just to keep his hands busy. “I smile often enough.” 

 

“Kinda hard to believe with you scowling over at our truck all day long.” 

 

There’s that cursed heat again, crawling its way up Hanzo’s neck. “I assure you I have better things to do than stare at you all day.” 

 

“Me?” McCree’s smile widens. “I was talking about our truck. But now there’s an idea.” 

 

He stows his apron away and locks that cabinet too, running his fingertips over the cool, smooth surface. “If I stopped to look at you for even a moment,” he says evenly, turning his nose up, “it is the fault of your poor choice in fashion.”

 

McCree puts a hand on his chest as though startled.

 

"Now you take that back."

 

"I will not."

 

McCree's eyes narrow, and Hanzo is made aware of just how thick his eyelashes are. "Plaid an' blue jeans are _ classic,  _ Shimada."

 

"Alone, perhaps," Hanzo agrees. "Accessorized with a ridiculous hat and boots with spurs -"

 

"They complete the look!"

 

"We are five months too far from October to warrant such frequent use of costume,  _ cowman." _

 

McCree matches Hanzo glare for glare until he finally snatches the hat from his head and presses it to his chest. His hair is a wild mop of brown, tinted red, half plastered to his skull from the hat. "You're probably the wiliest son of a gun I've ever met."

 

"I do not know this word."

 

"Sharp. Clever. Spit-fired. You got a mouth on you, and it's damn near the prettiest thing I've ever seen." His glare doesn't soften - if anything, it intensifies. "Have dinner with me."

 

Hanzo balks. “What makes you -”

 

“Maybe you don’t like the clothes,” McCree says, “but I reckon you like what’s underneath them.”

 

Hanzo has to snort at the pure gall. “A bold statement.” 

 

“My middle name, sir. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s the truth.” He’s still glaring at Hanzo and it’s quite impressive for a face that was so clearly made for smiling. Hanzo’s gaze flicks from his eyes to his lips, now a straight hard line. Only for a split second but he knows McCree notices. Heat creeps up into his cheeks. A mistake he can’t unmake. 

 

“Look,” McCree says, raising his eyebrows, “maybe I’ve been misinterpreting your signals. Maybe I haven’t, but that don’t have to mean a thing. If you’re really not interested, I won’t press you anymore. I just wanted to say, for the record, that I think I could show you a real good time. I'm layin’ it all out on the table here - I think you’re real cute, with that sharp tongue and your pretty eyes. Real pretty. Even your sour vegetables ain’t all bad. I’m serious now, I’m not playin’ around. You tell me no, and I won’t ask you again.” His face does soften now, a hopeful little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You think you might like to get a bite with me sometime?”

 

Hanzo can’t believe he’s hesitating.  _ No _ is the easiest word in the English language. In Spanish, too. He doesn’t even really have to say anything; if it were Genji on the other side of the window, and if Hanzo was feeling particularly persnickety, he could simply slam the metal panel between them, conversation done.

 

Genji was  _ definitely _ supposed to be back from the corner shop by now.

 

“I…”

 

Jesse watches him go a little red, and even more mortifyingly, his expression morphs into one of amused sympathy. 

 

“You don’t gotta give me an answer now,” he gentles, like Hanzo’s a startled animal. “I’m usually pretty close by. Just a hop skip and a jump away five days a week.”

 

“That is not necessary, thank you,” Hanzo says, gripping the side of the counter. “I… should probably see what someone like you would consider food reasonable to feed to a… general business competitor.”

 

“Ain’t we a little closer to rivals now?”

 

“I was being generous with even that much.”

 

“Potential sweetheart, then.”

 

Hanzo's eyes go wide, and Jesse snickers. “Now that sounded sorta yes-adjacent, Mister Shimada.”

 

“One can hardly blame me for being... curious.” 

 

McCree smiles. “Let’s go with that for now then.” 

 

Hanzo is pretty sure he’s still blushing but he does his best to regain his composure. All this shouldn’t rattle him as much as it does. 

 

“Were you about to propose a plan or was this just talk?” 

 

With a little shrug, McCree puts his hat back on. “Both. I’ve got something in mind I think you’ll enjoy.”

 

“A frightening prospect.” 

 

“Now you just trust ol' Jesse. You free tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up after work.” 

 

Hanzo huffs. “You do not waste any time, do you?” When McCree only smiles at that, he gestures flippantly with a hand. “I think that can be arranged.” 

 

“Well… good!” McCree’s grin spreads. “Glad to hear it! I’ll just… mosey back on over before the boss man comes to fetch me himself.” He tips his hat and starts to turn, though his eyes stick to Hanzo. 

 

They watch each other for a long, strange moment before McCree laughs quietly to himself and tips his hat, and then he returns to his truck. 

 

Hanzo… doesn’t watch him the whole way. He shuts the metal hatch instead, and fishes around in his pocket for the keys when he hears a whistle from the cracked back door. 

 

“I heard the whole thing,” Genji whispers, peering at Hanzo from outside. 

 

“Open the door or close it. You look like a deviant.”

 

“You’re going on a  _ date.” _

 

“I am not.” 

 

Genji closes the door, his grin as big as Hanzo’s ever seen it. “Yes, you are.”

 

Hanzo scoffs but he knows it’s no good. “Why were you eavesdropping in the first place. The last time I checked you were a grown man and not a ten-year-old child.”

 

“I thought I’d finally catch you flirting.”

 

“I do not flirt.”

 

Genji makes a face. “That much was obvious. You _ insulted _ him.” 

 

Hanzo rolls his eyes and finally climbs into the driver’s seat. “He did not seem to care.”

 

“I never said he wasn’t weird.” 

 

Hanzo starts the truck and pulls out onto the street. He can feel Genji watching him from the passenger seat, an annoying habit he’s had for as long as Hanzo can remember. 

 

“Do I have something on my face?” he asks, keeping his eyes straight ahead. 

 

“So where do you think he’ll take you?” 

 

Hanzo sniffs, navigating through the late evening traffic toward home. “Somewhere a man in spurs will not feel isolated. Maybe a  _ honky-tonk bar.” _

 

Genji hoots with laughter, digging into one of his plastic bags for a moment to dig out a bag of mini cookies. He tosses it into Hanzo’s lap, where it’s ignored in favor of proper road safety. Genji himself tucks into a bag of bitter-smelling chips half as big as he is.

 

“If you square dance, you have to send me a video. It’s the law.”

 

“Even if...” Hanzo dutifully opens his mouth when Genji waves a chip in front of his face. He grimaces. Why Genji buys pickle-flavored chips when he could have real, actual pickled vegetables is beyond him. “Even if I did stoop so low, I would be an extraordinary square dancer.”

 

“Are you kidding? It’s almost worse if you’re good.” He happily munches on some chips. “I bet Jesse is terrible at it. But he does it with such joy that no one cares.” 

 

“You have thought about this too much.” 

 

“And you clearly not enough.” 

 

“About square dancing cowboys? I would hope not.” He eats another chip when it is offered to him. 

 

“You know you can’t fool me, right? I’m your brother.”

 

Hanzo takes a left turn onto their street. “I am painfully aware of that fact.” 

 

“I  _ know _ you.” 

 

“Could you try to make it sound less ominous?” 

 

Genji shrugs and hops out of the truck as soon as Hanzo has parked it in its usual spot in front of their complex. “I think I’ll be disappointed now if he doesn’t take you square dancing.”

 

“That makes one of us then.” 

 

Genji stuffs his fist through the grocery bags and crumples up the bag of chips, tossing them into the bin outside. With a greasy, salty hand he slaps Hanzo on the back as they make their way into the elevator. “Cheer up, Brother. Whatever happens, at least it’ll be interesting. And you get to make eyes at Jesse to his face instead of across a street.”

 

Hanzo pushes him out of the elevator at the last moment and smirks as the doors close between them.


	4. Chapter 4

“Y’know, I realized somethin’ yesterday.”

 

Hanzo looks up from a half-sliced block of tofu to the window where McCree peeks through under the partially raised screen. He blinks. 

 

“I did not know it was already evening.”

 

“I plum forgot to get your number!” he continues as though Hanzo never spoke, stretching his arms out at his sides. “After my heartfelt confession an’ everything!”

 

“Heartfelt?”

 

“Think you might wanna pass me those digits, honey? I’d be awfully obliged.”

 

“What benefit would there be to this? Are you not going to pick me up after work after all?”

 

McCree pouts a little. “Maybe I wanna send you a little text before then. Or after. Or just, you know, in general.” 

 

Hanzo puts his knife down. “That sounds suspicious.” 

 

“It’s not. It’s  _ nice _ . I send nice texts.”

 

Hanzo watches him for a moment longer before he holds out a hand. “Give me your phone.” 

 

McCree pulls out his phone so fast, Hanzo thinks he might drop it there and then. Instead he hands it to him through the open window. Hanzo strips his gloves and types in his name and number and hands it back. 

 

McCree takes a quick look and raises an eyebrow. “You put in your name as Hanzo Shimada.” 

 

“That is my name.” 

 

“Awfully formal, don’t you think?” He presses something on his phone with his thumb and two seconds later, the phone in Hanzo’s pocket vibrates three times. “Now you got my number as well.”

 

“Yes,” Hanzo agrees, and a sudden unwelcome wave of awkwardness comes over him. He stuffs his phone away, pulling on a clean pair of gloves to occupy his hands. “Thank you.”

 

“Nah, I should be thankin’ you,” McCree says, beaming up at him. Hanzo only dares the quickest peek at that bright smile.

 

“Do you not have prep to do yourself?”

 

“Aw, sure, but Gabe won’t be on my ass about that until it comes to the onions. He hates the sting in his eyes, y’know, the big baby. But I ain’t too proud to cry, so that duty usually falls to me.”

 

Hanzo finds himself laughing at that, quiet and brief. “I do not doubt it.”

 

There’s a short strange pause like McCree is unsure about what to say. Which certainly can’t be the case. Then he puts his hands in his pockets and looks around. 

 

“So where’s that brother of yours?”

 

Hanzo starts slicing the tofu again. “Hmm. I thought you came over here for my number.” 

 

“I did! No other reason, I swear.” 

 

“No need. I know my brother is the more entertaining one,” Hanzo deadpans. “It comes with the hair.” 

 

McCree looks at him for a moment before he snickers. “Seems to me you can be pretty entertaining all by yourself.” 

 

Hanzo shrugs but allows himself the tiniest smile. He deposits the sliced tofu in the right container and puts another block on the board. 

 

“If I had to guess I would say Genji is probably on a visit to our fruit vendor.” 

 

Jesse snaps the fingers of his prosthetic, which makes more of a  _ tink. _ “Yeah, the Shambali folks? Genji recommended them to us. Gabe does business with ‘em on the regular now. Hell, I didn’t know your brother was fishin' for customers for his boyfriend.”

 

“He is a devious soul.”

 

“I’ll say. Leavin’ his own brother to make time with a fruit seller.”

 

Hanzo sighs, placing the tofu in a shallow tray of ginger broth and soy sauce to soak. “He is young and besotted, and he pays for the extra fruit out of pocket. I can only fault him so much.”

 

Coming up close to the window, McCree rests his elbows on the surface with a little laugh. “That’s mighty generous of you.”

 

“It is,” he agrees, pulling the next block of tofu from the fridge. 

 

“Would he be just as generous if you did the same thing?”

 

“If I were to… make time with a fruit seller?”

 

“In a way.” 

 

Hanzo looks at him and slices through the tofu with a poignant _ thack _ . “He would be ecstatic.”  _ Thack _ . “A terror.” 

 

“I see.” McCree’s smile grows teeth. “The entertaining approach.”

 

“That would be a matter of debate.” 

 

McCree looks at him for a moment, his expression impossible to read, before knocking twice on the counter and stepping back. “I’ll see you tonight then. Or maybe before. Seein' as I’m right over there.” He points at the truck on the other side of the street. 

 

“You are difficult to overlook,” Hanzo says dryly but when McCree gives him a jaunty little wave goodbye, he lifts his hand for a much more restrained response.

 

The day passes.... slowly. Unbelievably slowly. Days don’t normally pass at such an agonizing pace, even when the lunch rush is exceptionally long, or he’s woken up particularly early. Hanzo doesn’t care for it or what it could mean.

 

“It means you’re excited for your date,” Genji informs him, sending a couple of customers off with a little wave. Hanzo doesn’t respond, waiting for him to take the next order to start preparing it.

 

“It means nothing,” he finally says, garnishing the sushi roll with ginger and sending it on its way. 

 

“No it doesn't,” Genji sings back. 

 

The day passes even slower when Genji can’t shut up about Hanzo's "date". He hasn’t even begged off the usual amount to visit the vendors’ alley, apparently dedicated to pestering Hanzo ceaselessly.

 

He’s exactly like Hanzo predicted. Ecstatic. A terror. And nothing has even happened yet. 

 

_Yet._ The thought sneaks into his mind before he has time to shut the door in its face. He blames the constant distraction of Genji’s comments. 

 

“If you are so intrigued by the concept of... being courted by McCree, why do you not go out with him yourself?” Hanzo asks, maybe a little too loudly, making his last customer throw a bewildered look over her shoulder. 

 

Genji somehow manages to steal another peach and bites into it with a pleased little groan. “That’s not how that works.” He grins. “And you know I’m a one man kind of man now.” 

 

“Why do you not go to your one man then and pester him with inane questions for a change?” 

 

Genji sticks his tongue out at him like a little child. “I’ll have you know that Zenyatta doesn’t find any of my questions inane. He thinks they’re  _ charming _ .” 

 

“That tells me everything I need to know.” He sighs. “Please go  _ charm _ your boyfriend. I will close up myself.”

 

Genji claps him on the shoulder and  _ beams. _ “No can do, Brother. I’m going to clean up here. You’re going to go off on a date with a real American cowboy.”

 

Shrugging his hand off, Hanzo narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You would never offer to close the truck when given explicit permission to laze about.”

 

“Oh, this isn’t for you,” Genji laughs, wrapping an arm around both of Hanzo’s shoulders. “Zenyatta’s coming over tonight, and I’m driving him home in the truck. I need you out of here as quickly as possible. Fortunately, it looks like your date is just as excited for you to be gone as I am.” 

 

Hanzo looks up out the window to see McCree making his way across the street, calling something over his shoulder at the purple-haired woman in the truck.

 

This may have been one of the longest days in history but Hanzo still doesn’t feel ready when Genji all but kicks him out of the truck. He feels awkward without the safety of the truck window between him and McCree but it’s too late to back out now. 

 

At ground level, McCree is... taller than anticipated.

 

“Howdy,” McCree says as he steps up and there’s a certain awkwardness in his smile that makes Hanzo feels a little bit more confident. “Sorry, I’m a little early. Sombra kicked me out. Said I was making her nervous.” 

 

“I imagine jangling spurs would have that effect.” 

 

“Now you leave my spurs out of this.” McCree throws a quick look over Hanzo’s shoulder at their truck. “Are you good to go? Do you need to lock up first?” 

 

For some reason, Hanzo feels some heat creeping back up his neck. “No. Genji offered to do it.” 

 

“Ah,” McCree says, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Showing some of that generosity. Or what did you call it? Terror?” 

 

Hanzo clicks his tongue. “Would you have us stand here and talk about my brother all night or is there actually a place where you wanted us to eat dinner?” 

 

McCree chuckles, and it’s just as terrible and wonderful as it was the very first time. “Sure thing, darlin’. I hope you aren’t skeptical, because I’m about to show you the time of your life.”

 

“That could mean anything.” Hanzo waits until McCree is facing away, guiding him toward the business complex in the direction of a parking garage. Once his attention is diverted, Hanzo quickly checks his topknot for errant strands, smooths a hand over the fuzz of his undercut, knuckles at the corners of his mouth just in case. Why didn’t he take the time to check himself in a mirror?

 

“Yeah? How d’you figure?” McCree asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Fortunately, Hanzo’s own hands are back by his sides once McCree turns his attention back to him. 

 

“You could throw me into a pit of snakes,” Hanzo muses, gesturing vaguely with a hand. “You could feed me nothing but unsalted peanuts, or force me to watch French cinema. All of these would be _times in my life.”_

 

“But that ain’t what the sayin' means,” McCree snorts, veering right down a path toward the parking garage. “Although that sounds like one hell of a date.”

 

“That does not fill me with confidence.” 

 

McCree only laughs. “You just wait and see.” 

 

They climb the outer stairs of the parking garage to the second floor and McCree cranes his neck before leading him to a car in the far corner. 

 

It’s small and sleek and an alarming shade of purple. 

 

“It’s not mine,” McCree says as he gets the keys out of his pocket and pushes a button to unlock the car. “I usually drive the truck home.” 

 

“Your colleague’s?” Hanzo guesses. 

 

McCree taps against the metallic purple roof of the car and grins before opening his door. “How could you tell?”

 

Inside, the car is surprisingly tidy and clean, the seats suffused with the lightest scent of perfume. McCree seems visibly relieved to find it’s not a stick shift. 

 

“Never drove this one before,” he says as he backs out of the parking spot. 

 

“Once again, this does not fill me with confidence.”

  
“Have a little faith, darlin’.” Up close like this, McCree’s smile is even worse. Hanzo vows to keep his eyes straight ahead for the duration of the drive. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mass effect comes out next week y'all, so you'll probably see the next chapter sometime in april. may all our attempts to bang aliens bear weird-ass fruit. -b

There’s music playing on the car radio, soft and mellow, and McCree seems just as surprised by this as Hanzo. 

 

“Huh. Guess Sombra likes smooth jazz.”

 

“You don’t think she did this for your benefit?”

 

McCree barks with laughter, slapping his own thigh. “You kiddin’ me? If she put any thought into givin’ you an impression of me through music, you can bet your ass it wouldn’ta been half this nice.”

 

Rolling down the window, Hanzo rests his elbow outside. “Genji would have done the same. Probably early noughties-era emo punk.”

 

“No kiddin’,” McCree hoots, navigating toward the city center. “Sombra’d probably pick somethin’ real classy. Mariachi band classics, left on the highest volume.”

 

They drive past a few restaurants Hanzo knows but McCree doesn’t stop near any of them. When he finally slows down and looks around for parking, they’re in a district Hanzo’s only been to a couple of times. It’s upscale. He recognizes some of the names of bars and restaurants they pass from reading about them in the newspaper. 

 

“Do you mind if we park around the corner? There’s valet parking but Sombra would kill me if I let someone else drive her car.” 

 

Valet parking. That doesn’t quite fit the honky-tonk bar he and Genji were imagining. 

 

They park in a row of expensive looking cars and walk for a few minutes until McCree leads him toward a restaurant across the street. It looks just as fancy as the rest of the neighborhood and the name seems vaguely familiar to Hanzo. 

 

“You’ve ever been here before?” McCree asks, opening the door for him. 

 

He shakes his head. “I… do not think I am dressed for this,” Hanzo says, looking down at himself. He’s dressed in black work slacks and a dark blue long-sleeved button-down, to match Genji’s green. ‘On brand’, Genji calls it, but Hanzo calls it ‘practical’. Right now, it just makes him feel out of place.

 

McCree runs a hand through his hair, sweeping the nearly-auburn mop back. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me. You look like you were born for a place like this. I’m the one who should be worrying about  _ aesthetic.” _

 

The interior and exterior both are sleek and modern, black and chrome with a faint hint of blue, and true to his word, the hostess doesn’t even spare a glance at Hanzo, her attention all on McCree. 

 

“Do you have a reservation?” she asks; to her credit, Hanzo doesn’t detect a single note of skepticism. 

 

“Yes ma’am, McCree, table for two.”

 

She checks her tablet, nods and leads them towards the back of the restaurant. It’s still fairly early but a few tables are already occupied - all by people dressed far better than the both of them. 

 

Their table is small and a little secluded, right by a tall glass wall from which a thin sheet of water cascades down into a shallow pool let into the ground. It’s a stylish look, Hanzo presumes. Unfortunately the constant sound of running water is also a little irritating. 

 

McCree doesn’t seem to mind as he pulls out a chair for Hanzo. 

 

“So what do you think?”

 

“It is… not what I expected,” Hanzo says truthfully but every further elaboration is interrupted by the waiter appearing by their side and handing them their menus. 

 

“Could I start you off with a bottle of wine, perhaps?” he asks. 

 

“Uh.” McCree scans the menu in his hands, obviously lost. 

 

“Our sommelier would be happy to recommend something if you are… uncertain.” The thinly veiled condescension in his voice makes the hair on the back of Hanzo’s neck stand up, but McCree only smiles.

 

“That’s quite alright, garçon,” he says, leaning back in his chair. Shoulders rolled back, chin up - the very picture of confidence. The waiter blinks at the unsubtle joke. Hanzo is impressed. “We’ll take a bottle of -”

 

“Two waters, please, and give us a moment,” Hanzo says, training his eyes on the menu. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the waiter nod and murmur his assent as he disappears to serve another couple a few tables away.

 

“Shoot, honey, you put that superior tone of yours to good use. Really saved my hide, too - I was about to order the first bottle I saw to save face.”

 

Hanzo smirks. “I could tell.”

 

“You’re a natural at that. Bossin’ people around.” McCree runs a hand through his hair again, clearly bereft without his hat. “Can’t lie - it’s  _ real _ attractive.”

 

“You are not drinking, because you are driving, and I am not drinking because a single glass of subpar pinot costs as much as half a crate of summer squash.”

 

“Well shit, honey, I’m payin’ -”

 

“I am above the faux pas fabricated by the bourgeois that dictates one must spend a reprehensible amount of money when dining an upscale restaurant, and so are you.” He closes his menu and sits up straight, making eye contact with the waiter who glides over not a moment later to set their glasses down. “Nothing to drink, thank you; we are abstaining.”

 

“Very well,” the waiter says in a clipped tone. “Are you ready to order or do you need another moment?” 

 

Hanzo smiles. All that condescension and nowhere to go. 

 

“We would. Thank you.” He turns his attention back to McCree while the waiter leaves their side. 

 

McCree shakes his head. “You are something else.” He leans in a little closer. “You sure you’ve never been here?” 

 

“I have not.” Hanzo opens his menu again and quickly scans the main dishes. “After awhile you realize all these restaurants function basically the same.” 

 

“Gotta take your word on that.” 

 

The prices for the food are equally as exorbitant as the wine prices were, perhaps even more so. This place seems to have specialized on modern twists on classic French cuisine - complete with not bothering to translate the names of dishes at all. When Hanzo looks over the top of his menu, he can see that McCree is frowning as he’s reading his. 

 

“Do you read French?”

 

“Not a lick. Though I think I’ve got aperitif figured out through context. Why, d’you?”

 

“I do.” Hanzo dismisses most of the options as too rich, overpriced, or just unappetizing. He blinks then, the whole of their conversation catching up with him. He looks up to find McCree squinting at his menu. “Have you not… been here before?”

 

McCree looks up at that, blinking. “Uh.”

 

“I was led to believe that you thought highly of this place.”

 

He rubs the side of his neck with a sheepish sort of grimace. “Sorta? Not me personally. I was uh… well, to tell you the truth, I found this place online. The reviews were good, and I just figured… a classy guy like you would like a classy place like this.”

 

Hanzo can only stare at him.

 

“McCree,” he says, slowly. “I run a food truck.”

 

“Class ain’t what you  _ do _ \- it’s… it’s in the way you move! The way you do that thing with your face and your voice. You can pull that whole haughty, sarcastic prince thing off ‘cause you’ve got every right to, so it  _ works. _ Stop starin’ at me like that, goddammit, you know what I mean.”

 

“That… is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.” 

 

“You’re laughing at me.” 

 

Hanzo tries to school his expression but it’s too late. “Not at you,” he says. McCree looks miserable and it’s not a good look on him. Hanzo can hardly believe he’s even thinking it, but he prefers McCree sure of himself. 

 

“Look,” he says and closes his menu. Somewhere from the corner of his eye, he can see the waiter get ready to move so he doesn’t have much time. “I appreciate the thought. But this place is not worth it. I am not a prince and you are too smart to spend a fortune on meager portions of subpar food.” 

 

McCree blinks and then slowly closes his menu. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

 

Hanzo clicks his tongue. “Is that all you heard?” 

 

“Sure is.” McCree grins. “You wanna get out of here?” 

 

“I think I would.”

 

They stand, and they aren’t stopped on their way to the door. The hostess bids them a puzzled farewell, and McCree holds the door open for him again on their way out. 

 

“Well… that was a flop,” McCree sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking sideways at Hanzo. “Still gotta get fed, though. What d’you say we mosey on down the street a ways and see what looks good.”

 

“I am amenable to variety,” Hanzo says. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows as they walk down the restaurant and shopping district, catching McCree’s attention even in the middle of a crowd of pedestrians on the same mission for a meal as they are.

 

“Nice ink,” he says. Hanzo follows his gaze. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Used to have a some myself, ‘fore…” He gestures at his prosthetic. Hanzo clears his throat.

 

“My condolences, then.”

 

“Aw shucks, Shimada, I appreciate that. I miss those tattoos.”

 

“I meant for the arm, but… yes.”

 

“You’re probably right. Easier to get new tattoos than an arm.”

 

“That is sage American wisdom.” 

 

McCree laughs, an honest open sound that turns several heads. It’s slowly getting dark, the streetlights flickering on just as they turn onto one of the smaller alleys past the big shopping streets. In the distance, Hanzo can make out the bright lights of a small restaurant. 

 

“Not exactly the fancy dinner I was planning,” McCree says as they near it. It’s not much more than a hole in the wall but the smell of spices alone would have been enough to make them stop here. 

 

“I have not had Turkish in a long time,” Hanzo says, mostly because he can see McCree getting uncertain again. When it doesn’t seem to help he adds, “And I could hear your stomach rumbling two blocks ago.” 

 

“That's a convincing argument if I ever heard one.” 

 

The menu mounted up on the wall behind the counter is as long as the place is small but after a moment of consideration, Hanzo picks a simple lahmacun dish with minced lamb, lettuce and roasted eggplant. McCree chooses the same, with a little wink and a comment about trusting his judgment. 

 

“Lord have mercy,” McCree moans at the first bite, and again on the second.

 

“Be silent,” Hanzo grumbles, his ears red. “Have you no shame?”

 

“Nah, no time for that. Too busy enjoyin’ myself.”

 

“Can you enjoy yourself a little less… vocally?”

 

McCree reaches a hand up and diverts it at the last minute from an aborted hat tip to run through his hair again. “Well for you, Mister Shimada, I could try.”

 

It’s… nice like this. The tables are so small, their seats so close together that brushing feet is inescapable - especially with McCree’s long legs. It doesn’t help that McCree seems more than happy to nudge his foot against Hanzo’s, like he’s trying to play some sort of game. Hanzo thinks that if childish kicking is all there is to it, he might be able to play it, too.

 

McCree does have a point, though. The food is excellent. The scent of spices may have lured them in but it didn’t disappoint. 

 

“It’s nice to see you enjoy something that isn’t pickled,” McCree says and nudges his foot under the table. 

 

Hanzo returns the favor and McCree raises his eyebrows in a way that is altogether too disconcerting. “I happen to enjoy a wide variety of cuisine.” He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “I doubt you only eat one dish day in and day out. Or at least, I hope that is the case.” 

 

“I’ll have you know I’m a multifaceted individual. With many tastes.” 

 

“Just not pickled radishes.” 

 

“Or overpriced French food.” McCree smiles. Hanzo smiles back.  


 

“Even a multifaceted individual has to draw the line somewhere.” 

 

“See now, I knew you’d get it.” 

 

After they’ve finished their food, the owner of the shop brings them two small glasses of salep on the house. It’s sweet, with just the right amount of cinnamon, and Hanzo feels a comfortable warmth blooming in his chest. 

 

“Let us walk,” he says, standing to leave. McCree all but leaps out of his chair, eagerness written on his face, and it’s… endearing. Hanzo is endeared. Maybe it’s the food, or maybe it’s the salep, but doesn’t feel any sort of motivation to quell the thought. 

 

McCree is his business rival, and he’s also a very handsome man who wears his heart on his sleeve. Hanzo has never been that brave.

 

He leads McCree from the shop, and they stroll together down the street, McCree loping a little slowly to allow Hanzo to match his pace. Most of the people around them are fairly fashionable, their age or younger, and Hanzo feels comforted to be among them and apart from them all at once. 

 

“I am glad you brought me out,” he says firmly, refusing to frame it like a confession. McCree ducks his head and butts his shoulder against Hanzo’s. 

 

“Well, I sure am glad you agreed to come. This whole thing coulda gone a lot worse, the way it started.”

 

“It started with good intentions. That is the basis of all good evenings.”

 

McCree snickers, butting his shoulder again. “Y’know, you can call it a date. Promise it won’t kill you.”

 

“It just might,” Hanzo says. “But alright. A good  _ date _ , then.” 

 

“See? And you’re still breathing.” 

 

Hanzo rolls his eyes but can’t help the little smile that’s tugging on the corner of his lips. “Next time we will just cut out the expensive restaurant altogether.” 

 

McCree doesn’t quite stumble but it’s close. “To think a minute ago I had to convince you to even call it a date and now you’re already planning the next one.” He sounds pleased as punch about it. Hanzo lifts his chin and gives McCree an appropriate side-eye.  


 

“Is that not the logical conclusion of a good date?” 

 

“Sure is.” McCree butts his shoulder a third time, lingering just a little bit longer than before. “Just thought you’d glare at me a little more before we got that far. Not that I would’ve complained. It’s a _very_ attractive glare.” 

 

“Some of your tastes are questionable.”  

  
“Some, maybe.” McCree grins over at him. “Not all of ‘em, though.”


	6. Chapter 6

Hanzo finds himself… disappointed when they make their way back to the car park. It seems he’s not alone, either; when they both slide into Sombra’s car and shut themselves inside, McCree fiddles with his keys for a long minute before he sticks them in the ignition.

 

“Gotta be honest with you,” he laughs, the sound a little quiet, almost nervous. “I like spendin’ time with you. I know I’m supposed to be cool and suave and let you go at the highest point of the evening, but I’m just tryin’ to think of a way to keep it goin’.”

 

Hanzo looks out the window as they back up to hide his smile. 

 

“There will be other nights,” he finally says, glancing over at McCree. For the quickest second, McCree takes his eyes off the concrete to look back. 

 

“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “I’m lookin’ forward to ‘em.”

 

The drive back is more comfortable, somehow. They don’t talk much, just the soft sound of music filling the silence. But being this close to McCree due to the limited space inside the car, doesn’t concern Hanzo as much as it did on the drive to the restaurant.

 

The darkness makes the world feel smaller. It makes him feel like there isn’t much out there apart from him and McCree and this tiny car. 

 

He keeps stealing glances over at McCree, as subtly as possible. His long fingers tapping away on the steering wheel. His profile illuminated only by the occasional streetlight or passing car. 

 

He’s close enough to touch but Hanzo keeps his hand firmly in his lap as soon as the thought hits him. 

 

McCree follows Hanzo instructions and all too soon takes the turn onto Hanzo’s street. He stops in front of their building and turns off the engine. Hanzo looks out of the window and up at the windows of the apartment he shares with Genji. There’s still light on but dimmed, which... probably means Zenyatta is still there.

 

“Somethin’ wrong?” Jesse asks, tilting his chin toward the building. 

 

“No.” Hanzo snorts softly. “Nothing important. I expect I will be interrupting something or other when I enter.”

 

“Huh? Oh. You share a place with Genji?”

 

“It is cost efficient, and we do not dislike each other’s company,” he sighs, “however, his… romantic life sometimes makes me question this decision.”

 

“Yeah, he did say somethin’ about a hot date tonight.”

 

“Please do not use those words in reference to my brother ever again.”

 

“Could use ‘em for another pair.” 

 

Hanzo laughs despite himself, glancing at McCree out of the corner of his eye. “You are very forward.” 

 

McCree shrugs. Unsubtly, he stretches an arm over across the back of Hanzo's seat. “Life’s too short to waste time beatin' around the bush.” 

 

“A fitting philosophy for a man like you.” 

 

“Someone strikingly handsome?” McCree turns in his seat expectantly. 

 

“Someone who would just invite their competitor to dinner on a whim.” 

 

“Huh,” McCree says. “Not on a whim. And I thought we’d agreed that this is a date.” 

 

“A date, then.” Hanzo smiles at McCree’s little sigh. “That does not change the fact that this is still a rivalry.” 

 

McCree frowns. “You’re stubborn as a mule, you know that?” 

 

“It has been implied.”

 

“Ain’t nothin’ for it either; I’m so  _ into _ it.” McCree tosses his head back in a mockery of exasperation. The grin on his face is sly, though, and when he looks at Hanzo, the world around them starts to melt. “You gonna head on in, Shimada, or you think maybe we might touch on a little intimacy ourselves?”

 

“In what form?” Hanzo murmurs, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You may use my given name, if that is your wish.” 

 

“Didn’t know I needed permission for it,” McCree snorts, “but I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

He seems to be waiting for… something. For Hanzo to open the door and leave. He’s considering it. He’s considering several things.

 

“Intimacy comes in many forms. You will have to specify.”

 

“This your way of comin’ onto me?” McCree asks, raising a hand to grip the head of Hanzo’s seat. He shifts a little closer, despite the console between them. 

 

“You presume much,” Hanzo says but he can feel his heartbeat quicken. 

 

“Am I wrong, though?” McCree is close, his voice low and Hanzo doesn’t think his legs would carry him even if he did decide to get out of the car. 

 

“No.” 

 

McCree smiles before he closes that last bit of distance between them and it’s that damned smile that does Hanzo in. 

 

McCree kisses with a kind of reverence that’s surprising, slow and burning and nothing like Hanzo expected of him. It’s… good, mostly. But also just the right amount of frustrating. The angle is strange and there’s still that cursed console between them and Hanzo makes a noise that should probably make him feel much more embarrassed than he does. 

 

McCree laughs and pulls back a little, tapping his forehead against Hanzo’s. “Maybe not the best place for, uh. Intimacy.” 

 

Hanzo frowns. “McCree…”

 

“Jesse. But you really don’t need my permission for that.” He winks and Hanzo kisses him again. 

 

Holding his scruffy face is like trapping an animal, unbelievably furry and he just won’t keep still. McCree… Jesse opens his mouth, his laugh a hot puff of air against Hanzo’s lips and Hanzo tilts his head just so, following him with a deeper kiss. For revenge.

 

For  _ revenge. _

 

“So… damn...” Jesse groans when one of Hanzo’s hands slips down to the side of his neck, thumbs tilting Jesse’s face to suit him, “ _ bossy.” _

 

“Silence,” Hanzo rumbles, flicking his tongue against Jesse’s bottom lip. He honestly doesn’t know where this is all coming from - on the inside he’s frantic - but something about Jesse’s perception of his nature makes it easier to be that person. Confident. Capable of romantic finesse. Or… at least, physical finesse. He can be…  _ bossy. _

 

Jesse’s hand has wandered from the back of Hanzo’s seat to the nape of his neck, the other placed on his waist. When Hanzo licks into his mouth, he makes a noise that makes a shiver run down Hanzo’s spine. 

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this isn’t like him. If Genji knew, he’d be ecstatic. And that alone should be an indicator for how scandalous the whole thing is. But still… here he is, kissing this man and silently cursing the small car for its size. 

 

There isn’t space for anything more than this but every fiber of his being wishes he could get closer to Jesse. 

 

When Jesse finally breaks the kiss, he’s flushed but that grin is still in place. “Darlin’, you really are somethin’ else.” He brushes a loose strand of hair behind Hanzo’s ear. Hanzo wants very badly to lean into the touch, swallowing thickly. This is dangerous.

 

“That could mean anything,” he murmurs, glancing from Jesse’s mouth to his eyes. Jesse groans, and taps his forehead to Hanzo’s as though he read his very thoughts. 

 

“Sugar, please.” He laughs, that low, rich sound, and bumps their noses. “I’m gonna sweet talk you ‘til it sticks. Then I’m gonna do it some more.”

 

Hanzo makes a noise he himself can’t decipher and leans up to press his mouth to Jesse’s again. It’s… it’s nice. The singular attention of a fatally handsome man. Reciprocation isn’t his forte, and a quiet, niggling part of his brain wonders if it could be.

 

Jesse seems happy as it is, kissing him again and again until time is nothing but a haze. 

 

“Gotta be honest,” he murmurs against Hanzo’s lips. “This isn’t how thought the night would end. You’re pretty tough to read, y'know that?” 

 

Hanzo shakes his head, trying to find his way back to coherent thought. “It was… unexpected,” he says, voice strangely hoarse.

 

Jesse presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t have to end here, though. If we don’t want it to…”

 

It takes a few moments for his words to sink in. 

 

_ Oh.  _

 

Hanzo tries to picture Jesse’s place. How someone like him would live. He can’t quite imagine it, which is probably reason enough for the hesitation he feels. It’s not that he doesn’t want to - just the thought of it makes his head spin. 

 

But Jesse’s also right. He didn’t expect the night to go like this. He expected… nothing, if he’s honest with himself. It’s not like him to get swept up like this. 

 

“I think we should…” He swallows and wills himself to look away from Jesse’s lips. “Is it alright if we postpone? Perhaps for next time.” 

 

Jesse’s smile doesn’t falter. “There you go promising me second dates again. I must’ve done something right.” 

 

Hanzo laughs. “One or two things.” 

 

He feels for the door handle and finally pushes it open, but only a little - just far enough to prove to himself that he’s really truly going to get out any minute now. Jesse, for his part, is very sporting about it; he even drops his hand from Hanzo’s face and sits back in his seat, rubbing his jaw with a smile on his face as sweet as taiyaki. 

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says in earnest. “Bright and early.”

 

“Bright and early,” Hanzo agrees, glancing down at Jesse’s grinning mouth. He shifts, one leg out of the car, when Jesse puts a hand on his arm.

 

“‘Fore you go, tell me somethin’.” He squints and tips his head down. Hanzo swallows. “You really do like our churros, right?”

 

Hanzo blinks. “Pardon?” 

 

“You can admit it now. Just between us.” There’s a glint in Jesse’s eyes and Hanzo isn’t sure if it makes him want to punch or kiss him. 

 

“I am known to have a sweet tooth,” he says instead, his hand firmly on the door handle. “I am not sure that says much about the quality of your churros, however.” 

 

Jesse puts a hand on his chest. “Ah, right where it hurts. Do you know no mercy?” 

 

Hanzo gives him one last smile before he gets out of the car. “I would not be adverse to more. If that helps.” 

  
“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

 

Jesse waits until Hanzo’s reached the front door of his building before he gives him a jaunty wave and drives off. Hanzo watches him trail down the street and disappear around the corner before he unlocks the door and steps inside. 

It’s impossible to tell how much time they spent in the car in front of the building but thankfully it was enough time for Genji and Zenyatta to finish whatever they were doing. When Hanzo enters the apartment he finds it dark and silent. The smell of food and extinguished candles lingers in the air, so he opens a window in the living room before taking a shower. 

He’s glad that Genji isn’t up and ready to bombard him with questions but a tiny part of him almost wishes he was. There are too many thoughts in his head. Perhaps talking about them would help to sort them at least a little bit. 

Even after his shower and after his head hits the pillow, he can still feel Jesse’s hands on him. His lips. Hear the way he laughed. 

  
“Incorrigible,” he mutters to himself, and shoves a pillow over his face.


	7. Chapter 7

“Ah. Good morning.”

 

Hanzo lurches to a stop so suddenly he nearly falls over himself. His fruit vendor smiles at him beatifically from over the arms wrapped around his brother’s shoulders on the opposite side of the kitchenette. Genji cranes his neck around to follow his gaze and grins at Hanzo, any sheepishness overwhelmed by a healthy dose of self-satisfaction.

 

“Good morning, Brother. I did not hear you come in last night.” His sly grin turns into something… else as he backs away from where he’s pressed Zenyatta against the counter. “Zenyatta made coffee. We found the grounds at the night market last night. They’re from beans spat out by monkeys in Taiwan.” He lifts his own mug from the counter by Zenyatta’s hip and takes a deep whiff. “You should try some!” 

 

“If the vanilla flavor is not to your liking, I can brew a pot of tea,” Zenyatta offers. Hanzo wants very badly to bicker with his brother about his strange indulgences, but it is… challenging in Zenyatta’s presence. He’s a genuinely affable person, soft-spoken and kind-eyed. All of Hanzo’s building bluster deflates.

 

“It would be the questionable origins that put me off,” he sighs, pouring himself a cup anyway, “not the flavor. Thank you for preparing this. You did not need to.”

 

“It was no trouble.”

 

As Hanzo spoons sugar into his mug, he peers sideways at his brother, hoping he conveys by that look alone that he has most certainly noticed that this is the first time he’s ever met one of Genji’s overnight guests the morning after.

 

There are two angry marks clearly visible above the collar of Genji’s shirt, like he’s not even trying to hide them. He’s probably even proud of them. Hanzo averts his gaze. He’s fairly certain he’d finally similar evidence of their night together on Zenyatta’s neck, but he hasn’t forgotten his manners completely. 

 

“I’ll take Zenyatta to work on the bike this morning,” Genji says and takes a sip of his coffee. “Are you alright with starting prep by yourself?” 

 

Hanzo would love to comment of Genji’s particular brand of work ethic but comment that comes to mind seems unnecessarily harsh in Zenyatta’s presence. 

 

“Of course.” 

 

“No problem with… facing the competition on your own?” There’s that sly grin again but also something else. It takes Hanzo a moment to understand. For all his incessant curiosity, Genji is still giving him an out if he chooses to take it. It’s almost sweet. 

 

“That will be alright,” Hanzo says, feeling the heat crawling up his neck. He can’t stand to look at Genji any longer so he takes a sip of coffee instead. 

 

Genji lets out a low whistle. “That good then? Well, if that’s the case I won’t feel as bad about abandoning you for a couple of hours.” 

 

“A couple of hours?” Hanzo raises an eyebrow. “Is that how long it takes to take someone to work?” 

 

Genji shrugs, completely shameless. “You know how it goes.”

 

“No, I do not think I do.”

 

“Genji will be timely,” Zenyatta says,  offering Hanzo a gracious smile. To Hanzo’s surprise, Genji doesn’t grouse or gripe - instead, he grins back at Zenyatta.

 

“I feel betrayed,” he says, and doesn’t sound it at all. “With the both of you on my back like this, how am I ever supposed to be properly irreverent?”

 

“You do wonderful work,” Zenyatta tells him, long fingers curled around his mug - it’s Genji’s favorite, Hanzo only just notices. “You should be present for all the stages of your craft, Genji.”

 

Genji presses a smile to the rim of his mug. “Why are you always so right?”

 

“An exaggeration,” Zenyatta says, just the faintest blush high on his cheeks, but his smile is warm. 

 

Hanzo couldn’t make a snide remark about this even if he tried. 

 

“You don't need to hurry,” he says and finishes his coffee. It’s not like he’s fleeing his own kitchen but he’s still not quite sure what the etiquette is in these kinds of situations. Zenyatta and Genji seem happy enough. Comfortable.  _ Domestic _ . It’s a strange thing. 

 

He returns to his room to get dressed and ready for the day but all too soon he finds himself restless and with nothing to do. It’s another hour before he has to leave to manage prep in time for the lunch hour rush but his room feels too small today. 

 

Genji and Zenyatta are still in the kitchen when he comes back out, speaking in low voices and soft laughter. 

 

“You're leaving early this morning,” Genji says when he sees Hanzo grab the keys. 

 

Hanzo shrugs. If there’s a reason, he can’t put a finger on it himself. Before he’s out of the door he turns around one last time. “Thank you for the coffee, Zenyatta.” 

 

Zenyatta nods. “You are welcome.” 

 

“Tell Jesse you drank monkey spit beans this morning,” Genji calls after him, just before Hanzo shuts the door. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He does not tell Jesse about the monkey spit beans. He doesn’t have time to tell Jesse much at all once he pulls into his usual stop and starts prep - not before a giant paper sack filled with the biggest churros he’s ever seen is thrust under the half-open metal screen. 

 

“Mornin’, sunshine!”

 

Hanzo’s knife is raised mid-chop as he blinks down at the offering, the scent of fried dough and cinnamon slowly but surely suffusing his truck. 

 

“... Good morning.”

 

“You had breakfast yet?” Jesse asks, leaning against the counter on his elbows. Hanzo briefly recalls the steamed rice and natto he’d scrounged up in the kitchen while his brother flirted with their fruit vendor. 

 

“No.”

 

“Very irresponsible,” Jesse chides with a little smile. “But perfect for this situation.” He opens the paper bag a little wider like a precious offering. 

 

There’s a small plastic container with chocolate sauce nestled on top of the churros. Hanzo takes off his gloves before taking it out of the bag. 

 

“You did not have to…”

 

“Yeah, but I wanted to.” Jesse gives the bag a small encouraging nudge. “And you said you were open to another tasting, right?” 

 

“I did.” 

 

The churros are even better than the last ones he ate. He tries not to make that fact too obvious but judging by Jesse’s grin, he’s failing miserably. 

 

“I knew you liked them. Can’t fool me, you know?” 

 

Hanzo scowls at him, only partially undermined by the fact that his hand is already reaching for the next churro. 

 

“They are delicious,” he grumbles, much to Jesse’s amusement. 

 

“Couldn’t sound more like you were pullin’ teeth to admit it, too.” The grin he aims at Hanzo is entirely fond, and… well. That’s something.

 

“We are still rivals,” he points out, perhaps a little to plaintive for his liking. Jesse’s grin only broadens. 

 

“That can be pretty sexy, y’know. Put a little kick in this relationship. A little spice.”

 

“You do not feel you have enough spice in your life, Jesse McCree?”

 

“Oh, darlin’.” He grins. “Could always do with a little more spice.”

 

It’s too early in the morning for Hanzo’s skin to feel so tight and hot, even with the safety of the truck window between them. He picks up another churro, most just to have something to do with his hands. And his mouth. And also because they just get so much better with a little bit of chocolate sauce. 

 

“So I’ve been thinking,” Jesse says and pulls a churro for himself out of the bag. Hanzo lets him but only because he’s pretty sure he won’t be able to finish the whole bag by himself. “About our next date.” 

 

“That was quick.” 

 

Jesse shrugs. “Not too proud to show a little eagerness. Not when it’s worth it.” 

 

There’s something about his earnestness that makes Hanzo’s heart beat a little quicker. “Go on then,” he says, dipping a churro into the chocolate sauce. 

 

“Apparently I’m shit at picking out restaurants. I’m so much better at making food myself.” Jesse grins. “So why not skip the whole goin' out part and I’ll just cook something for you at my place.” 

 

“You have a high opinion of your skills,” Hanzo says loftily. 

 

Jesse pokes the half-empty paper bag. “So do you, apparently.”

 

“Ah.” Hanzo licks the sugar and oil from his fingertips. “Was it you who made these? I assumed it was the intimidating man staring at you from your truck.”

 

Jesse doesn’t so much as pry his eyes away from Hanzo’s mouth.

 

“That’ll be Gabe, or Captain Hardass as he’s known in the business.”

 

“I cannot imagine he takes to the moniker well.”

 

“Nah, but it sure is fitting.” Jesse pushes the rest of the bag toward Hanzo and stands up a little straighter. “Forget him, though. What do you say? I’d make you somethin’ real nice. Somethin’ you wouldn’t be able to turn that pretty little nose of yours up at.”

 

“You underestimate my abilities of condescension.”

 

“I sure as hell don’t.  _ You _ underestimate  _ my _ skill in the kitchen.”

 

“I have yet to see it proven,” Hanzo informs him coolly, folding his arms over his chest. He smirks a little when Jesse gets distracted somewhere around the vicinity of his biceps. “You have only shown me a glimpse of your prowess in a food truck.”

 

“And you  _ love it.” _

 

“A strong word.”

 

“And it's apt.” Confidence looks good on him, as much as it pains Hanzo to admit it. “I think I’ve figured out what you’d like. You won’t be disappointed.” 

 

Hanzo scoffs but there’s not real heat behind it. “You know the trouble with promises is that you are obliged to follow through.” 

 

“Oh, that was the plan, darlin’. I always do.” Jesse taps once on the counter between them. “Come on. Don’t make me beg. I’m not above it, you know. But I figure you wouldn’t want that right here in front of your place of work.” 

 

Hanzo makes a big show of rolling his eyes but he’s pretty sure his smile is giving him away. Whatever this is - whatever this is going to be - between them is, if nothing else, exciting. At least Genji would think it's a good thing.  


 

“Alright then. Before you do something regrettable.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic reque$ts [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> mywordsflyup's Tumblr: [damnable-rogue](http://damnable-rogue.tumblr.com/)  
> Byacolate's Tumblr: [wardencommando](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).  
> Byacolate's Battle.net ID: byacolate#1589


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